eremacausis

We are made up of our expe­ri­ences, what hap­pens to us, what we hap­pen. That is why mem­ory is a door. We enter, we exit. The mur­derer, who can for­get his acts of vio­lence, is no longer a murderer.

When I see her stand­ing there weep­ing, paint­ing her young face caged, I walk over and stand to her left. ‘Hi.’ ‘Hi.’ ‘What do you want?’ ‘Noth­ing.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘So, you’re cry­ing.’ ‘Yeah. He did it again. I want out of here.’ ‘Okay, let’s do it.’ ‘Okay.’

Any num­ber of pos­si­ble end­ings, but an expe­ri­ence that ended in one. She died. We didn’t do it. I remem­ber because it is part of who I should be.

Then there are those other things. Of shame. Kept alive, we are those peo­ple, though we should never have been them. For­got­ten, there is hope. That we are not those peo­ple, but different.

Only a small world can be described, only a small per­son knows another.